I am looking for this distant land where a grandmother can hold my hand, and put my hands in the mud, and plant the seeds,and hold the dirt.
Q~A Grandmother
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Author Archives: Molly B.
Q~FABRIC (innat ure)
As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one.
me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, lots of fabrics,
me hold numbersome fabrics in my closet, on my bed, in my life.
me touch them in moments of inspiration, Like when me hear a distant fiddle, or when me smell a breeze of goat.
me hold fabrics of color, of sun, of intricate stories,
of elaborate fairytales,
of crumbling brick,
of fishing towns. Of the distant kitchen in my minds eye that I wish to cook in.
The thread that is my reverie, holds together all of the meaning made memories that are of my fabrics. So many fabrics.
(IM SAD)
I am a displaced warrior of a heritage that is lost somewhere in the word JEW, where the fabric is held in the old story of three.
Story department stories.
(I REMEMBER)
In an effort towards belonging, I will weave.
I will weave the shit out of synthetic fibers, made into a repetitive pattern in a cosmic culture of so much fucking fabric.
FABRIC (n.) late 15c., “building, thing made,” (1)
Fabric is not fabric.
Fabric is animal,vegetable,mineral- it cycles.
through hands.
FABRIC, in its glory, in its truth is what sets us apart and brings us together.
all civilization uses fiber, fabric, to survive.
all survival is in the fabric.
We are hand made, only.
We have handmade a culture that endures, in its fabric.
To claim a place as ones native home, one must have an intimate understanding with its fabric.
To be a mother, a digger, a harvester, a sower, a crafter
me must seek the source.
(what is source?)
the source might be the music, or the holding of babies, or the food, or the wet, or the dry…
the source is the way
the wet, the raw, the blood, the sweat, the fibers, the grit, the earth, the dirt, the sewn materials, of comfort.
The Patterns in Nature : The Fabric
(Sunshine folklore)
cultured fibers.
1. (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=figured-fabric+loom)
Q~Cozy
Of all of the fabrics that make up the melting pot,
layeth the Quilt,
strung up strewn, together, in threads of plenty.
The Quilt renders a moment cozy, or a moment cottony smooth , in the throat’s chest.
The rugged earth, red, of the Southwest
The rainforested mug warm of the Island vibe.
The Quilt takes on all of the textile traditions into a clusterfuckmagnet of color and shape.
From the source to the silk to the strands to the stitch
Its a song, that blanket is.
Q~Week 6 Log of my time
Monday February 11th-
Reading : Stanislas Dehaene/Marjorie Perloff- 3 hours
Tuesday Febuary 12th–
Quilting for 4 hours, Study Abroad research, 1 hour
the poetics of colorful fabric study for 30 minutes
Wednesday February 13th–
Kallari Chocolate Lecture- 2 hours
Rukha peer editing- 1 hour and a half
Thursday February 14th-
REVERIE 1 hour free write
Cacao research 1 hour
Friday Febuary 15th–
“What is a Cranky? ” (a quilt song) workshop at the Oly Old Time Fest 3 hours
total hours: 17
Q- Anima/mus/out/in #1
” A word moves about in the shadows
and swells in the draperies.”-(Bachelard, p49)
I am sitting and sewing, in and out, in and out.
I am sitting and sewing between substance and void, in and out, in and out.
My thoughts are shadows that get lost in the sewing together, in and out, in and out.
The quilt is a blanket, a cover, a protector and is merely that.
I am sitting, quilting, thinking of this day that I participated in an act of domestic art at Jan’s home. A surrogate grammy:
(IN, anima, thread)
I washed the temple walls. I washed them and all the prayers dripped down, as the breeze hummed through the window into the room. I washed the temple walls.
I washed the temple floors, hands and knees, on wood, with sponge. I washed the temple floors and saw all of the feet away into the clean. I washed the temple floors.
Oui, Bacon. This morning my chest’s breath whispers to me that it yearns bacon and coffee air. I am journal-less, this cold morning, having fallen asleep at the wheel. The words that describe beautiful cream blazers and almond croissants fill my body with many texturally pleasing thoughts. I hear the words of gruyere, of fresh, of food, of farm , of fancy. But I know that in my future of closeness, I will be delving into the huipil, peruvian, color journey rediscovering the tales in spanish, and weaving my way more south than that. I have yearned for a long time to be among the tapestry of tanned faces and beaded lizards and soil wetness amongst the colors of a culture that embraces the mother.
(OUT, animus, up)
What about the pain?
What about suffering?
What about the craft, that was stolen,raped,pillaged?
Where is the mother in the woven?
(in, anima, in)
And what about the violin? and the viola? and the oysters? what about the olive orchards? and the pasta? and the ancestral kitchen that I long to cook elaborate recipes in? With sheep’s milk and cast irons to the sea. I want to learn how to cook fish. I want to gut the fish of waters un known yet. I want to gut my fears. I want to be there for the babies of a culture whose waters are un known yet. The relevance of my research can only go as far as the place that exists just before my taste buds do their own research.
(out, animus,what)
What about the story?
the old story of pain?
of suffering?
of forcing?
of sickness?
of hatred?
(in,anima, innnnnnnnnnn)
I know that somewhere out there is a terra cota kitchen, with a loom and a family that is going to hug me and feed me fresh corn and meat in a stew of old recipes, fresh pasta and wine, singing and hovering over the pot all day. I know that there is going to be a place where I can catch culture, that I witness enter into the colorful tapestry of tradition, into modernity, in integrity.
And I will go there with my remembrance of he who peddles the bread, she who threshes the wheat. In his white teeshirt and white skin. With his chain smoked hair and the cracks in his face, I will remember to bring the fisherman, and bring the fashionista, the suffering and the sufferer and bring the gardenia and bring the foreign films to the already foreign place in Right Relationship. The essence of what I want for breakfast must be brought to each day as a thread. A thread of silver lining, of whichever color represents the flavor of my tapestry. A slow brewed quilt that will hold me through the mile stones. Viajar en los piases que inspiro mi vida, mi hupil, mi amore es solamente una ves que ir. Language barriers are not barriers if you are carrying a handmade tapestry of all of the parts of you that make you feel inspired and holy no matter
(animus)
How hard you hurt.
he hurts, she hurts, we hurt.
(in and out)
I will quilt it, I promise, gently so that we find comfort again.
Q- week 5 log
Monday Febuary 4th: 1 hour quilting
2 hours reading The Secret Teachings of Plants
2 hours reading Dehaene/Perloff
45 min seminar paper
Tuesday February 5th:
5 hours field research in “the domestic arts” cleaning Jan’s home.
Wednesday February 6th:
2 hours Bachelard/reverie
1 hour “The Secret Teachings of Plants”
1 hour Quilting
Thursday February 7th:
2 hours Quilting
1 hour “The Secret Teachings of Plants”
Friday February 8th:
1 hour “Quilters : Women in Domestic Art” book
Total: 15 hours and 45 minutes
Q is for Quilt
Quilted consciousness, an ancient heirloom. A smell, a memory, a taste. A story, recycled. Terroir-place,ingredients,sounds, senses, flavors, of memory, of people, of place, of words. She will find the poetry of her threads. Here is the exploration of her feminine myth, the gathering of the pieces and the threading of her stories. For the course of one month, she will be guided to the folklore of her fabrics, to the tradition of her threads, to the ancestry of her passions, hand sewing a quilt along the way. She will be practicing how to be in direct perception with the wild nature in her. She will piece her story, and lay in it to dream.
ABCs and 123s – weekly log and field notes
- WEEK 8 LOG March 9, 2013 Kauai, everything is my field study here!
- Q-week 7 log February 27, 2013 Monday- 3 hours reading/seminar pass Cacao tour/writing/kauai
- Q~Week 6 Log of my time February 15, 2013 Monday February 11th- Reading : Stanislas Dehaene/Marjorie Perloff- 3 hours Tuesday Febuary 12th– Quilting for 4 hours, Study Abroad research, 1 hour the poetics of colorful fabric study for 30 minutes Wednesday February 13th– Kallari Chocolate ...
- Q- week 5 log February 5, 2013 Monday Febuary 4th: 1 hour quilting 2 hours reading The Secret Teachings of Plants 2 hours reading Dehaene/Perloff 45 min seminar paper Tuesday February 5th: 5 hours field research in “the domestic arts” cleaning Jan’s ...
Bachelardian Reverie
- Q- Because I am alone reverie week 8 March 7, 2013 “Child too nostalgic and feeling sad …………………………………………….. Child who never played, child to good Child whose soul was too caught up in the North Ah! that noble, that pure child one was And whom one ...
- Q- Nana i ke kumu “look to the source” Reverie. week 7 February 23, 2013 “Solitude,my mother,tell me my life again” – O.V. de Milosz Plumeria. My quilt is not made of real fabric, no. My quilt is made out of so much more than that. My quilt is ...
- Q- Beehive/Dream/Reverie/Prairie #2 February 18, 2013 “Reverie-and not the dream-retains mastery over its splittings” (Bachelard p79) I am trying to make a quilt, a beautiful cohesive quilt, that represents all of these aspects of my self but I don’t ...
- Q- Anima/mus/out/in #1 February 11, 2013 ” A word moves about in the shadows and swells in the draperies.”-(Bachelard, p49) I am sitting and sewing, in and out, in and out. I am sitting and sewing between substance and ...
Poetry
- Q- 99% practice 1% theory… I should have just made the damn quilt. Young. Pele, yells at me, for taking the easy road. I am an escape artist. A royal escape artist, with so much fear around commitment. I ...
- Q- Simply, where I am I smell the plumeria and the papaya, wafting in through the dusty screens from the hot window square. Those little holes that syphen in the air from the outside world. All is ...
- Q- the heart is a pulsing organ,fertile,needle:sperm,fabric:egg Transcribed from a typewriter: Today marks a moment where I finally felt the blood pulsing through my veins all the way from my brain center of my pulsing organ, that is my ...
- Q~A Grandmother I am looking for this distant land where a grandmother can hold my hand, and put my hands in the mud, and plant the seeds,and hold the dirt.
- Q~FABRIC (innat ure) As the needle penetrates the fabric, as the pen inks the page, as the warp kisses the weft, The worlds meet as one. me got lots of stories, lots of patterns, ...
- Q~Cozy Of all of the fabrics that make up the melting pot, layeth the Quilt, strung up strewn, together, in threads of plenty. The Quilt renders a moment cozy, or a moment cottony smooth ...
Poetry Observed
Term Paper Abstract
In finding the use my hands through delicate empiricism:
I am a Maiden, in a time of question, looking for my native home. I believe it that all of my passion is intimately tied to a feminine displacement, much greater than my own. How a woman uses her hands, is how she is defined. I am yearning to find my hands, my village and my home. How do I walk in right relationship with my heart, a heart that is in my body alone? How will my heart guide me to what I already know?
